Hi there, how’s it going? I’m still waiting for that airmail envelope to come plopping through the letterbox, but I expect you’ve got your work cut out upholding the New World Order. If you get a moment free, I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know.

Look, new pen now: different day. I don’t mean to sound snotty; I’m just missing you, that’s all. I’ve got a lot on my mind right now, and I’d love to hear your voice. I’m still at Lyn’s. Please ring me.

Love you

Frannie

CHAPTER I

Green Blades Rising

Sitting on the sofa, listening to Lyn gushing on the phone, Fran felt a strange, resentful little twinge. Was that a man at the other end? She rather thought it was. Leaning back, she peered into the hallway. Lyn stood there, sideways on to her, head nodding as she listened. Her sunny smile was private, like a dreamer’s. It soured Fran’s mood to know she couldn’t share it.

The twinge became a pang of guilt. She shifted with discomfort and sat forward. After all that Lyn had done for her, she still begrudged her friend her separate pleasures. You selfish cow, she told herself; went glumly back to towelling her hair.

She was fresh from the bath, still flushed with warmth; wrapped up in Lyn’s spare bathrobe. She rubbed her damp hair harder as if jealousy was something she could simply scrub away. And how might Lyn be feeling, when she thought of Fran and Craig? Having brought them back together, she could only stand and watch. She knew how it felt, to see a friend enticed away …

Reality engulfed her then. The whole room seemed to change, as if the sun had shifted round. Her mundane instincts fell away; Craig’s smile was just a picture in her head. The cold blue gaze of Athelgar dispersed it like a mist.

‘Oh, no!’ said Lyn delightedly, still giggling.

Fran sat there, very still: the towel’s dampness clutched against her chest. She’d spoken with a ghost, the other week. A solid phantom, trapped in time; still wandering those half-forgotten roads. He’d called on her to follow him – and she had said she’d come.

Jesus, Fran: what were you thinking of?

So what if Lyn had just acquired a boyfriend? So what, if it was Fran’s turn to be eased politely out? Such things seemed almost trifling now. The world through which she walked had been upturned.

How could he have reached her from a thousand years ago, to warm her carefree heart on Heaven’s Field?

Swallowing, she stood and padded through into the kitchen. Her mouth was very dry, she needed something to drink. She poured herself some fruit juice from the fridge, still listening to Lyn with half an ear. Her jealousy, still vague, was of a different order now. An envy of her friend’s unclouded sky.

Turning round, she took a sip. The Tropical Mix was cool and sweet; but it went down quickly, leaving her still dry. Moodily, she wiped her mouth; then stiffened. The calendar had caught her eye, hung up beside the pinboard. She stared at it for a moment, then slowly crossed the room. The lino seemed to cling to her bare feet.

There were neatly written notes beside some of the dates. Dentist 9:15 … Piano recital … Mummy (49). The memos barely registered. She craned in closer, looking for some printed information. Some indication of the next full moon.

But there was nothing.

She straightened up, and felt her heartbeat throbbing. She’d put this off for long enough, but still she wasn’t sure if she was ready. There’d be no turning back, she knew that. As soon as she learned the date, she’d be committed. Back on the road to meet her ghost again.

Athelgar. A man long lost. She felt her fine hairs rising.

It had taken her until yesterday to start some cautious digging. She’d waited for Lyn to take a break from her books, then idly broached the subject: hoping it sounded casual enough.

‘Do you know of any battles fought on Salisbury Plain?’ she’d asked.

Lyn finished stretching. ‘What, in Roman times, or … ?’

‘Whenever.’

Lyn had thought it over. ‘Edington’s the only really famous one, I think. That was in 878. There are legends about others. There’s even something in Malory about King Arthur’s final battle being fought there.’

‘But Edington was King Alfred?’

‘Mm. They’re not exactly sure where it took place, but Edington’s the likeliest contender. The Chronicle calls it Ethandun – the Waste Down.’

Fran blinked as she absorbed the blow, but kept her pale face straight. Lyn hadn’t noticed. The topic dropped, and Fran had let it lie. But now it had started nagging her again. Still nursing her cold glass, she went back into the living room. Lyn caught her eye, and waved, as if to say I won’t be long. Fran grinned and gestured back at her. No hurry …

Out of sight of the doorway, her bright face faded; she went quickly to Lyn’s desk. The top was strewn with papers, books lined up against the wall. There was a photo of her parents in a polished silver frame; a snapshot of her brother, too, propped up against the lamp. And a compact desktop calendar.

Still nothing on the phases of the moon.

Not sure if she should feel relieved, she drifted back, and over to the bookcase; too restive to sit down again and wait. Lyn had mentioned a reference in ‘the Chronicle’; and there was the The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, just waiting to be read. She set her glass aside, and pulled it out: a dog-eared paperback. Flicking slowly through, she found the entry dated 878. Edington was over in a sentence.

Our work was red and filthy: that’s what Athelgar had said. A voice from the past, addressed to her alone. The memory of someone who had fought there. Fran shook her head, quite giddy with the thought. Nobody on earth had heard what she had.

So what had it been like? Not bloodless like this dry account, she guessed that much. The fight would have been savage – full of swords and spears and axes. Medieval warfare; mud and guts.

It is no road for one like you to walk.

She gave a faint grimace, and tracked her gaze along the books. There was another, hardback version, with a musty-looking spine. Curious to compare the two, she took that down as well – and found that this one wasn’t a translation.

Typeset though it was, the text was meaningless to her. Weird, distorted letters mixed with modem ones throughout. The words were like a thorny hedge: impassable, entangling. But she picked her way through them to 878, and found what she was looking for again.

Eandune

Studying the word, she sensed the distant past draw nearer. The man she’d met would write the name like that. This was his dead language, still alive inside his head. Still roughening the form of modern English that he’d learned.

She was just about to close the book when her grazing eye was snagged by something else.

ræfen

She felt her heart leap up. Her mouth was powder-dry again, but the drink she’d set aside was quite forgotten. She focused on the sentence (elusive as a snake amid the brambles), and mouthed the alien words as she read through them.

Dar wæs se gudfana genumen de hi ræfen heton

Heart thudding, she turned back to the translation. It touched upon another, unnamed battle: still months before that victory of Alfred’s in the spring. The English were outnumbered, with their backs against the wall – yet suddenly the war was turned around. A force of the invaders had been set upon and killed.

And there was captured the banner which men call Raven

‘I never knew you were so interested,’ Lyn said brightly from the doorway.

Fran almost jumped; then glanced at her, and shrugged. ‘Something about the Plain, I think. It brings the past much closer … She hesitated. ‘Do you know what this bit means … about the banner called Raven?’

‘It was an emblem that the Vikings had; it led them into battle.’ Coming across, she leaned in close and nodded. ‘Yeah … It was one of the things that damaged their morale, the English capturing it. Hang on, there might be something in Brewer’s about it.’

She selected a fat paperback, and started leafing through it. The Dictionary of Phrase & Fable, according to the cover. Fran stood beside her, waiting; feeling hollow.

‘You can browse through this for hours,’ Lyn said; ‘dig up all sorts of gems. Raven, here we are … yes, look.’ She passed it across. Fran looked, and read.

The fatal raven, consecrated to Odin the Danish war-god, was the emblem of the Danish standard. This raven was said to be possessed of necromantic power. The standard was termed Landeyda (the desolation of the country) …

She pursed her lips and nodded once – as if to say, Well, fancy that – and handed back the book.

Lyn’s eyes strayed down towards her Cross of Nails. ‘Still wearing it, then?’ she asked, in a casual way that couldn’t hide her pleasure.

Fran glanced down, and touched the pendant; let it turn between her fingers. ‘A very special present,’ she said softly. ‘Thanks again.’

Lyn glowed at that. ‘You’re welcome.’ Replacing the book, she went off towards the kitchen. Fran stayed where she was, still worrying the pendant. To Athelgar, the thing had been a relic: the sign of a saint. Perhaps he even thought that she’d been martyred.

Nailed to a cross with those medieval spikes. She felt the notion tightening her stomach. To his mind, he was still alive, and she must be the ghost …

But Craig had seen it too, of course. She jumped at the distraction – fixed her memory on that. The first time that she’d slept with him; that posh country hotel. They’d helped undress each other (How do I look? her nervous mind kept asking); she’d left the cross around her neck till last. Drawing back – ‘Hang on,’ she husked – she’d fumbled for the clasp.

He touched her arm. ‘Why take that off?’

Fran hesitated, ashen-mouthed. ‘I … think I should.’

‘You think we’re doing something wrong?’ He searched her face with serious eyes. ‘If you do, we can stop right now.’

She’d stared at him, her hands behind her neck; her breasts unguarded. But Craig reached up to stroke her cheek instead.

‘You think this is a one-night stand?’ he asked.

Fran sighed, and swallowed. Shook her head.

‘We’ve waited long enough,’ he went on softly; fingering a strand of her dark hair. ‘I want to be a part of you, Frannie. I want to be a part of your life. Is that what you want too?’

Fran moistened her lips. ‘It’s like I want to climb inside you.’

‘So how can it be wrong?’ he asked her mildly.

She’d wrestled with her conscience for a silent moment longer; then let the clasp alone, and reached for him. And Craig had leaned forward to kiss the cross, where it nestled in her cleavage; a gesture full of reverence and awe. She’d hugged him to her, closed her eyes; and felt his loving mouth begin to rove …

‘You sure you don’t mind cooking supper?’ Lyn called from the kitchen.

Fran came to herself with a rueful little smile. ‘’Course I’m sure.’

‘Shall we have some wine with it?’

‘Why not?’ Fran said. Retrieving her glass, she wandered through; found Lyn comparing labels.

‘Any preference?’

Fran’s smile grew wider, mischievous. ‘What the hell, it all tastes the same, anyway.’

‘You are a philistine, Fran Bennett. I hope you know that.’ Lyn gave her a mock-snooty look, then glanced at the clock. ‘I’m just popping down to the corner shop; we’re getting short of milk.’

Fran finished her drink and rinsed the glass out; listening while the front door opened and shut. She waited for the fading sound of footsteps on the pavement – then wiped her hands and went quickly through the flat towards Lyn’s bedroom. She lingered on the threshold, almost guiltily; then darted in, and started looking round.

The room was neat, but comfortable and lived-in. A musky pot-pourri infused the air. She found the diary lying on the dressing table.

No way could Lyn have come back in; but Fran still glanced behind her before picking it up. The temptation to start reading came on strongly. Lyn’s private thoughts were hidden here. The secrets of her heart she hadn’t shared.

With an effort of will, she focused on the dates: ignored the tidy writing, till she reached today’s blank page. Then on, until she found it marked. The next full moon.

A woozy calm came over her, and muffled the slow drumbeat of her heart.

She could always stay up here, of course – in safe, secluded Oxford. Just wait, until the moon was on the wane. His influence would surely dwindle with it. He’d fade out of her life again, as quietly as he’d come.

She toyed with the temptation – then flicked it away. Its bright spark flared and died in smoke and ash. She really didn’t have a choice: the dream had told her that. She had to meet this ghost again – and somehow lay his troubled soul to rest. If she turned her back, and left the thing unfinished, she knew she wouldn’t rest herself; would still be sleepless twenty years from now.

Laying down the diary, she went back towards the kitchen. As if all that were not enough, she also had a casserole to cook.

‘Who was it, then?’ she asked Lyn after supper.

‘Who was who?’

‘That person on the phone.’

‘Oh,’ Lyn said, and shifted; then settled back and let her face light up. ‘That was Simon, actually.’

A pause. Fran prodded her. ‘Well, don’t go all coy on me. Who’s he?’

‘Someone I met at work. The temping side of things, I mean.’

Fran offered up a smile as bait for more. They were curled up on the sofa, feeling comfortable and full; a CD playing softly in the background.

‘He’s nice,’ Lyn went on dreamily; ‘quite shy.’ That conspiratorial grin again. ‘He still calls me Lynette.’

‘And a very nice name it is, too. Shame to shorten it, really.’

‘He thought I was French, first off!’

‘Well, you look French. Sort of.’

Lyn tittered. ‘You know my middle name’s Isabella? Well, my Dad chose that, after Princess Isabelle, who was married to Edward II. They called her the She-Wolf of France.’

Fran shrugged. ‘Well, my middle name’s Elizabeth because my Mum was really into Pride & Prejudice and stuff.’ Leaning back, she looked at Lyn again. ‘You think it’s getting serious?’

Lyn smiled again, with lowered eyes. ‘It might be.’

Now that they were discussing it, the jealousy was gone. Just as her decision to return to the Plain had brought an inner peace, so acceptance of Lyn’s separate life had left her satisfied. She felt a glow of pleasure for her friend.

Lyn had more work to do that evening. She was still slogging away in the glow of her desk lamp when Fran came back from the bathroom to say good night.

‘Don’t work too late.’

‘I won’t,’ Lyn smiled, and nodded at the jar at her elbow. ‘There aren’t many biscuits left.’

Fran grinned at that, and gently closed the door. Lyn heard her moving round, then settle down. The flat grew quiet again: a cosy, womb-like hush beyond the lamplight.

She usually worked best in an environment like this; but tonight her mind felt fidgety – distracted. Instead of ploughing a proper furrow through some untranslated texts, she knew that she was grazing: wasting time on fallow land. There was nothing that she needed from the Chronicle right now. But Fran had picked it up today, and now Lyn found she couldn’t put it down.

The text was full of haunting gaps: so much had been forgotten. AD 904. The moon darkened. That was all. Whatever else had happened had been literally eclipsed. They must have thought their world was going to end.

Her eyes flicked to the Riddle, as if seeking reassurance.

It was pinned there on the wall, so she could see it while she worked. It had lived above her desk in Christ Church, too. A teasing gift from Martin, copied out with loving care. He’d never done Old English, but he’d formed each word just right.

Moe word fræt …

She rather thought that Daddy had conspired with him on that. An Anglo-Saxon riddle from the Exeter Book: the subject was a moth, devouring words. And though it chewed and swallowed them, it never took them in.

The answer was a Bookworm, of course. Oh, very droll, she’d told him; and kept it very carefully ever since.

Beside it was a colour print of Beowulf’s first line, the H illuminated like a manuscript. Hwæt! the long-dead poet called to her. In the context it meant, Listen! As she’d once explained to Fran, it summed things up for her. History demanded her attention just like that.

Returning to the Chronicle, she browsed on through the entries, and came to the Brunanburh poem. A famous English victory of 937, and the chronicler had really pulled the stops out, painting an epic scene of strife and carnage. Yet no one knew the site of it today.

The march of time. So much fell by the wayside. She felt that old, nostalgic twinge again.

It was doubtless Fran’s enquiry about the Raven banner that focused her attention on the grisly reference here. A real raven this time, though – and written in the common English form. More familiar; harsher-sounding. Hræfn.

Behind them, to divide the carrion meat,

They left the raven, dark and shadow-clad …

She thought of Simon suddenly, and couldn’t keep a wry smile from her lips. He failed to see how she could find this stuff so interesting. Give him football any day. Or tinkering with cars.

They had some common interests though – like good Italian food and conversation. He’d booked them a table for Saturday night. The prospect was a pleasing inner glow.

… and æt græg deor,

Wulf on wealde.

Time for bed. She yawned into her hand, and closed the book. No wiser for the words she had consumed.

CHAPTER II

On Earth as It Is in Hell

Tilshead Tea-Rooms hadn’t changed a bit.

Sitting by the window, gazing out into the sunny village street, Fran felt her instincts fusing with the past. She might have come here last weekend, not four long years ago. She couldn’t help but straighten, every time she heard an engine – a hollow feeling growing in her stomach. A farmer’s truck would clatter by; the void would fill again. But she’d keep her hearing focused on the noise, until it faded: dispersed across the still air of the Plain.

The room was dark with polished wood: a refuge from the sunlight. Silence filled it, seeping from the panelling and beams. An antique clock ticked drily in the background. It seemed she had the whole place to herself.

She glanced down at her untouched plate. Her mouth felt dry, too dry for scones; her stomach much too sour for jam and cream. She poured herself a splash more tea, and turned her gaze towards the road again.

The proprietress had welcomed her with friendly, searching eyes. Fran sensed that she’d been recognized, but guessed the woman couldn’t place her face. That suited her just fine, of course: she didn’t want to talk. Just sitting at this window brought back memories enough.

Didn’t you use to come down with Indra and the others? The unasked question hovered as the cream tea was brought through. But Fran’s smile had been fleeting, and the other woman hadn’t pushed her luck.

The old clock kept on ticking in the corner.

An army Land-Rover bowled past; Fran’s pulse-rate leaped again. She thought about the last time she’d had tea here, along with Paul and several other Watchers. They’d just been starting on the scones when a packet of Hummvees rattled past outside. A moment’s startled silence; then Crash, thud, Bloody hell! and they’d all been piling out onto the pavement. She remembered that last glimpse she’d got: the mottled iron cockroach-shells, and lights like dim red eyes. But the vehicles were clear, and heading north towards Gore Cross: their dismal, diesel clatter fading slowly in the fields.

The Tea-Rooms had grown used to scenes like that.

She felt a quirky glimmer of nostalgia. Memory was a comforter, especially when it drew old friends around her. But as she sat, and watched the road, their grinning faces dimmed, the banter dwindled – leaving her among the empty chairs.

The shadow of the Hummvees seemed to linger, like a stain. Part of the bleak atmosphere that overhung the land. As if those evil armoured bugs had gone to ground somewhere.

She tipped her face into the light; it warmed her skin, but couldn’t reach her heart. Because now, of course, she knew what really lurked out there. Waiting for the dusk, perhaps. The rising of the moon.

She lowered her gaze, and sipped her tea … and wondered, very calmly, when he’d deign to show his face.

With afternoon now wearing on, she thought about some old haunts of her own. Points around the range where she had watched from. Places that still called to her, their voices zephyr-faint.

Other ghosts were waiting there. The shadows of her past. To stir them up would pass a little time.

Finishing her tea, she pulled Lyn’s jacket off the chairback. She hoped the lady wouldn’t mind about the untouched scones. Pausing at the door, she looked around the empty room. The ghosts were here as well, amid the dimness and the dust-motes. She tarried, as if waiting to be noticed. Then turned away, and left them to their unheard conversations.

Outside, the day was bright but fresh; she shrugged into the jacket’s fleecy warmth. The Black Horse down the street was where she’d booked in for the night. Perhaps she’d still be waiting here tomorrow. She had no way of knowing when he’d put in an appearance.

Perhaps he wasn’t coming back at all.

She glanced up and down the street, but Tilshead seemed deserted. Empty country slumbered all around it. Would she be relieved, if she had come down here for nothing? She almost dared to hope for such an outcome; then realized it would bring no hope at all. Tense though she was – not butterflies but hornets in her stomach – she knew she had to raise this ghost again.

She walked past Lyn’s parked car (blessing her again for the loan of it) and strolled on out of the village. The convoy route curved northward, but she took the westbound fork, towards Breach Hill. A lesser road, and quieter still, with hedgerows blocking off the Plain’s expanse. She passed the old brick water-tower, set back among the trees; a bird sang out in solitary vigil. But trees and bushes petered out before she reached the crest.

The place was as exposed as she remembered: just barren, windswept heath on either side. Cruisewatch cars would park here at the roadside, looking north across the dreary slopes of Imber. She halted with her hands deep in her pockets: gazing off towards Fore Down and Imber Firs. The breeze was stronger here, stirring her hair like unseen fingers.

She stood there for a while, but saw no movement. Nothing walked amid those miles of grassland. The dark, contorted copses kept their secrets. At length she turned, and started slowly back.

A sombre shape was waiting by the roadside: in the shadow of the trees, beside the tower. Fran saw him, and stopped dead. The hornets in her stomach bared their stings.

He watched her for a moment; then came forward. Her nerve-ends quivered briefly with the impulse to retreat. She overcame the instinct and stood her ground. And Athelgar himself seemed almost wary: approaching her with reverential steps.

He wore his grimy coat more strangely now: hitched up and wrapped around him like a shawl. More comfortable like that, she guessed. A closer imitation of the medieval cloak.

How weird this modern world must seem to him.

He dipped his head in greeting, but his eyes remained on hers. He had his warrior’s pride, she thought – whatever awe he felt.

‘Well met, my lady Frances.’

‘Fran,’ she said, as drily as her dry mouth would permit.

He nodded slowly. ‘Vrahn,’ he said: a soft, distorted echo. His rough and rustic accent was becoming more familiar – enough for her to register an oddness to the sound. As if it were a foreign word for him.

He paced around her thoughtfully. ‘I see that you are now dressed for the road.’ He sounded quite impressed as well as awed. She guessed he wasn’t used to girls in trousers.

His own dark clothes were dustier than when she’d seen him last: the chalkiness suggestive of much tramping round the Plain. ‘Have you found what you were looking for?’ she asked.

‘Perhaps.’ He turned away, looked back towards West Down. ‘The troops who muster round this place: more warriors of the king?’

‘Yeah.’ She tried to see them through his ancient eyes: their helms, and muddy livery, and horseless iron carts. ‘So what did they make of you?’ she went on curiously.

A faint smile touched his lips. ‘They have not seen me.’

The dust was in his hair as well; or was he turning grey before his time? The light found paler bristles in the shadow of his beard.

‘There is something in the wastes,’ he said. ‘The call is growing stronger.’ He fumbled in the pouch around his neck, and came up with a coin: the antique one he’d tossed, back at the crossroads. ‘I think that it is metal kin to this.’

Fran looked at it again, and saw how thin it had been worn: as if by years of slow, obsessive rubbing. He turned it in his fingers even now.

‘You haven’t been to get it then?’ she prompted.

‘I … will not go alone,’ he said – and glanced towards her.

She wondered what it cost him to admit that. A warrior’s pride would only go so far. For a moment she felt flattered; then second thoughts took hold, and gripped her hard. If he needed her along – a saint, as he supposed – what kind of evil powers did he need protecting from?

‘Where?’ she asked, her heart already thudding.

He turned away and pointed: at West Down, and the slopes that rose beyond it.

She felt a thrill of icy pins and needles. ‘Not in the dark … ?’ she ventured, trying not to sound appalled. I can’t do that, she thought at him. I won’t.

He shook his head. ‘The downs are sleepless, once the sun is set. I have crossed the tracks of things that walk in darkness. We must claim the thing we seek before the nightfall.’

The glimmer of relief was cold and faint. His words awoke the memory of shadows at her heels. She swallowed, wiped her mouth. ‘We can’t go on yet. Not until the flags come down. The soldiers will be moving round till then …’ Her mind raced onward, mapping out their course. The range was closed till five or so. How many hours of daylight would that leave … ?

‘Whose is the scarlet banner on the roads?’ he wondered.

‘It’s no one’s … Just a warning.’ She hesitated. ‘Your banner was the black one … wasn’t it?’

He looked at her, and nodded.

‘Rafen … ?’ she asked cautiously.

He searched her face. ‘I know we are unworthy. I ask that you will pray for our redemption.’

She hesitated, staring back. His grim expression tightened at the pause. But then he let it twist into a wry, self-mocking smile.

‘Nor would the Bishop do so.’ He turned away; then wheeled again towards her. His voice had been resigned and low, but now it rose in tone, and grew more bitter.

‘“What would your petition be?” he asked me. “Pray to kill and return alive. I cannot intercede for that. I will not pray for you.”’ He pointed as he said it; but Fran sensed he was mimicking this Bishop, and pointing at the shadow of himself.

She moved without thinking: grasped his sleeve. He looked at her askance, arm still extended.

‘What’s to forgive?’ she whispered.

‘Shinecraft. Murder. Treachery. You know what we have done.’ Gently now, he disengaged himself. ‘Our chronicle is ashes now, and we shall soon be dust.’

Again she felt those pricking pins and needles, but was afraid to ask him more. If she showed her ignorance too much, she’d give herself away. He might begin to think that she’d deceived him.

She’d never claimed to be a saint. But nor had she denied it.

A breeze crept through the summer leaves above them. The real world fell back into its place. Fran swallowed down the lump in her throat, and made a show of looking at her watch. Nearly quarter to five already.

By the time they’d got to Westdown Camp, the trackways onto Larkhill would be open.

They’d walked as far as East Down Wood before she tried again.

They were following a gritty road that cut across the contours to the north. The sinister plantation was a sunken field away – as hostile as a square of troops deployed on open ground. Shadows filled it, guarded from the sun. The croak of rooks came drifting from the trees.

Beyond, the empty grassland looked innocuous enough. She could see the distant copses to the south, where Greenlands was. So different to the gulf of night she’d fled across before, and yet the view still made her tense and clammy. Greenlands, though unseen, was an ominous presence: as repellent as some village with the Plague. No way could she go nearer, she might catch it …

(Or be caught)

More cawing from the rooky wood, as if to spread the word.

Light thickens … said a dry voice in her head: a trigger-phrase that brought the whole quote with it. Lines she’d learned while studying Macbeth, way back in blissful ignorance at school.

Good things of day begin to droop and drowse,

While night’s black agents to their preys do rouse.

Swallowing, she glanced towards the sun. The south-west sky was flushed with marigold. They had perhaps two hours.

Athelgar walked just ahead; his pace was slow but steady. Whatever he was searching for, he hadn’t got a fix on it as yet. At least there was a method to his mode of navigation – but it didn’t make her feel too confident. Whenever they’d come to a parting of ways, he’d simply flipped his coin to choose between them.

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